with the mourners of zion
by uncontained hybrid
Summary: Anthony Goldstein loses a loved one, and comforts himself with the faith that is all he has ever known.


Terry shook Anthony one last time. "Get up before McGonagall gives you another detention for being late."

"Dowatransfigu" Anthony responded, covering his face with his pillow.

Terry whipped out his wand. " _Augamenti,"_ he said, directing the jet of water straight at Anthony's face.

"I swear on everything holy, that if you wake me up like that one more time, I will make sure everyone knows you're afraid of teddy bears."

"Your sister tells me Jews aren't supposed to swear," Terry grinned.

"Yeah well, Ima never told Dalia Jews aren't sposed to do magic either," Anthony grumbled, slowly getting out of bed.

"I brought you toast," Terry shrugged, putting the cold piece of bread on Anthony's nightstand. "Don't go back to sleep and then whine to me about another detention."

* * *

Anthony dashed into Transfiguration and grabbed a seat next to Terry just before McGonagall entered the classroom. "Mr. Goldstein," she nodded. "Not quite punctual, but it's a start."

McGonagall began her lesson, where Anthony tried desperately to stay awake despite the fact that his brain never really turned on until well after lunchtime. His half-slumber was interrupted by a knock on the door of the classroom.

McGonagall huffed in annoyance for a second, before calling out, "Come in."

Professor Flitwick appeared in the doorway. "Ah, Professor McGonagall, may I have a word in the hallway?"

McGonagall's eyebrows shot up. "Certainly."

McGonagall soon re-entered the classroom, a rather sombre look on her face. "Mr. Goldstein, take your things and go outside. Professor Flitwick wishes to speak with you."

Frowning in confusion, Anthony quickly packed up his things and hurried outside. "What's wrong?" he asked Professor Flitwick immediately.

"I think it would be best for us to talk in my office. Your sister and brother are waiting there."

Anthony almost ran down the hallway as if Flitwick was chasing him, his heart beating a mile a minute. He practically blasted his way through the door to Flitwick's office. Flitwick entered several minutes later. "I'm afraid I have some bad news. I received a letter from your parents earlier. Your grandmother has passed away."

All three Goldstein children gasped audibly. Dalia blinked tears out of her eyes, as Noah, their eldest brother, slipped an arm around her shoulders. Anthony simply stared at the walls of Professor Flitwick's office, seemingly frozen with shock.

"I'll give you three some moments alone. There's a letter from your parents, if you'd like to read it."

Anthony started and accepted the letter with shaking hands, before passing it to Noah.

"Are we going to go home?" he asked, trembling. "For the funeral?"

Professor Flitwick bowed his head briefly. "I'm afraid not. The holidays are in two weeks, and your parents thought it best you wait until then."

Anthony nodded at Professor Flitwick's retreating figure. Noah spoke up then. "The funeral will have already happened. That letter is dated Saturday night, and it's Monday morning."

Dalia whined. "Why didn't they tell us Savta was sick?"

Noah held his younger sister close to his chest. "Abba writes that she passed away in her sleep."

Dalia kicked at Flitwick's desk. "I didn't get to say goodbye."

Noah ran a hand over her back. "I know," he whispered, fighting back the tears.

* * *

Terry found Anthony later, huddled down in his bed, blankets wrapped around him. Anthony was whispering Hebrew phrases from a well-worn, leather bound book.

Pushing aside the burning question in his mind of, "So... what exactly is that?" Terry gently asked, "What happened?" He sat down on the bed next to Anthony, slipping an arm around his shoulders.

Anthony just shook his head, and his shoulders began to shake.

"What's wrong?" Terry asked again, this time in slight alarm.

Anthony choked out a response. "My gr-grandmother... she's de-dead."

Terry reached out and hugged him. "I'm sorry," his words were sincere, knowing just how close Anthony had been with his grandmother, and how hard this loss must be hitting him.

"Are you gonna go home?"

Anthony punched at his covers before turning his tear-streaked face towards Terry. "My parents said it's better if we don't come home until the holidays."

Terry frowned and looked away for a second, selfish thoughts flitting through his mind. He took a deep breath and pulled Anthony closer.

"It's okay," he whispered, stroking Anthony's hair to calm him down. Glancing at the clock, Terry bent his head in disappointment. "I have to go to class. Are you gonna be okay?" When there was no response from Anthony, Terry realised he must have fallen asleep. Shaking his head, Terry kissed him and hurried off to his next class.

* * *

Later on, Anthony slipped down to the grounds of Hogwarts, ignoring the darkening sky above him. He sat by the edge of the lake, collecting a small pile of rocks. He ran his hands through his hair and thought of his grandmother.

His grandmother was, no _had been_ a Holocaust survivor who was lucky to make it out alive, and luckier to be allowed into Great Britain when the Ministry of Magic pressured their Muggle counterparts to allow the magical Jewish communities of Eastern Europe into the country.

She had met Anthony's grandfather, a Portugese Jew whose family had been in England for many generations. She had taken on his customs, and learned the Ladino of his ancestors, in the same way that Anthony's grandfather had learned her Yiddish.

Anthony breathed deeply, trying not to cry anymore. His grandmother had lived far longer than most of her generation. She had been forced to leave her whole family behind to burn in the ghettos of Poland, and had built a new life for herself.

Anthony shook himself like a wet puppy and looked up at the sky. Perhaps it was for the best, in a sick, perverted way. A woman who had gone through that didn't need to see her grandchildren fight yet another battle, a battle which mirrored her own childhood and fight for survival.

To his parents, his siblings, himself, or maybe to no one in particular he whispered an ancient Hebrew phrase, "May you be comforted with the mourners of Zion." He thought for a moment of the ancestors, the past mourners of Zion that he had never known, surrounding him, strengthening him, and it gave him hope.

He got up and paused for a moment before heading inside the castle for dinner.

* * *

 _A/N: For QL. Beater 2 of Puddlemere writing in the genre of spiritual using the prompts "So... what exactly is that?" and chasing._


End file.
